A Shifting
by prodigaldaughter13
Summary: John and Sherlock fight, and John reveals a secret. Sexy times ensue.
1. Chapter 1

"And at any rate, it really doesn't matter what you think, you won't be here much longer," Sherlock inserted into his nearly-daily tirade on why John Watson a) is an Idiot b) Should Stop Touching Sherlock's Experiments and c) Really Ought to Stop Complaining About Privacy Because Science. Normally John tuned this lecture out, but now, now he was interested.

"Sherlock, what are you on about now? I'm not going anywhere," John said, setting his newspaper aside so he could study the detective. Sherlock had been pacing, ranting about some cultures John had evidently disturbed when he'd cleaned the bathroom –which wasn't even his fault, Mrs. Hudson had been the one to clean the bathroom, not John– when he'd dropped this doozy of a comment.

"Well of course you are, John, you've been here nearly a year. Frankly it's strange you haven't left sooner," Sherlock said, attempting to be cavalier, but if the past year had taught John anything, it was how to tell when Sherlock was hurting. And oh, how he was hurting now.

"What makes you think I'm going to leave?" John asked, scrunching his eyes shut in frustration. Sherlock continued his pacing, hands clutching at his hair and shirt buttons clinging on by sheer force of will.

"Because you have no reason to stay. Your limp is healed; you have other sources of adrenaline. What possible hold could I have on you?" Sherlock criticized, turning on his heel and walking the length of the living room once more. When John opened his mouth to argue, Sherlock forged ahead, his voice going faster and faster. "The only reason to remain with a person you no longer need is sentiment, and with someone like me, it would have to be quite a large amount of sentiment to balance out my idiosyncrasies, far beyond that of mere friendship or brotherly affection. As you have stated, we are _colleagues_, brought together by necessity and convenience. And as you have also stated, numerous times, _you are not gay_!"

They both froze, John with his hand halfway up in an interrupting gesture, Sherlock with his hands still clamped in his hair, chest heaving with exertion. Slowly, Sherlock lowered his hands, his breath still coming quickly while his eyes danced with a manic sort of fear. John knew his mouth was gaping open in surprise, the meaning behind Sherlock's words hanging heavy in the air between them.

"Did it never occur to you that I said that for you?" John finally gritted out. When Sherlock just stared at him, he elaborated. "After Angelo's… well, it was obvious you didn't do that sort of thing. And then, I saw how everybody treated you. I knew people would be even worse than you if they knew I liked blokes _and_ women, so… it was just better if I was just your mate." John gave a shrug, trying for nonchalance, which, from the look on Sherlock's face, he missed by a country mile.

Sherlock froze, stunned into silence and confusion.

The detective flopped onto the couch, assuming his thinking position, the one that usually meant _no-John-I'm-busy-don't-bother-me-with-the-mundane_. This time, though, John wasn't letting Sherlock off so easy. He rose and crossed to the couch, crouching down and brining his face to the same level as Sherlock's.

"Open your eyes, Sherlock," John said lowly, adopting the authoritative Captain Watson voice that was more likely to get a response out of Sherlock than anything else, especially when he was having such a fine strop.

For a moment, Sherlock stubbornly squeezed his eyes even more closed, but a few seconds under John's steady stare was enough to make his eyelids flutter open. Green-grey eyes met blue, and a brief stare-down ensued, which for once, John won. Sherlock released his position and sat up, trying to put himself on higher ground than John.

The army doctor took this show of force in stride, merely rising to sit next to Sherlock on the sofa. Sherlock shifted, pulling his body away from John while his head rotated to face John.

This was precisely what John had been afraid of, this careful fear, the skittishness of a man uncertain of how he was going to be received. A Sherlock afraid of John's potential advances was a Sherlock John didn't want to see. He never wanted to look at Sherlock's face and see fear there, particularly if he was the reason it was present.

"Sherlock, you don't need to– I'm not going to jump you or anything," John exhaled in irritation. Sherlock made a derisive noise, and John glared at him. "I mean it, Sherlock. You don't do things like that, and that's fine. _It's all fine_," John said firmly.

At that Sherlock gave a laugh.

"Would you stop that? Quit laughing, or scoffing, or doing whatever it is Sherlocks do when they're stroppy. Would you just tell me what the hell is going on in that brain of yours?" John demanded. Without thinking, he reached to lay a hand on Sherlock's shoulder, but he was reminded of his gaffe when Sherlock flinched away. He lowered his hand uncomfortably. He had thought that perhaps Sherlock would be annoyed for having missed something so obvious, but not that he would be so… phobic. As if John had some sort of disease.

The detective gave a sigh, placing his face in his hands in an uncharacteristic gesture of defeat. "What's going on," Sherlock began simply, "is a shifting."

John waited for more elaboration. As Sherlock shifted under his searching gaze, he realized that he'd need to prompt the younger man.

"A shifting of what?" John asked.

Sherlock looked up from his hands, as if just realizing John was still in the room. "Of mind. This changes things, John, surely you realize _that_," he said. A small amount of anger and a large amount of hurt started to boil under John's skin.

"This changes _nothing_, Sherlock. I am exactly the same man I was twenty minutes ago," John insisted, hating how his voice seemed to plead with Sherlock to see, to observe, to know that John had not actually changed.

"Well, of course you are. You don't think that's what this is about, do you?" Sherlock asked, clear shock and annoyance dancing across his face, same as it always did when John made an erroneous assumption at a crime scene.

"No…?" John said slowly, feeling as if something very obvious was going on, if only he was clever enough to see it.

"You do. Oh. Oh. _Oh_!" Sherlock exclaimed, jumping up from his seat and kneeling in front of John with his eyes wild and almost… concerned. His hands fluttered, as if he didn't know what to do with them, and if that wasn't ridiculous enough, when he finally settled his hands, he clasped them both firmly around John's. At first John was going to move his hands, but after a moment, he gave up.

What was the worst that could happen?

Then Sherlock placed a soft kiss to John's fingertips, and John froze.

"Sherlock–" John started, but was soon cut off by Sherlock kissing his fingers once more.

"John, don't be dull. I didn't mean –would never have meant– that your sexuality had any bearing on our friendship. It only makes this a great deal simpler," Sherlock explained, raising his eyes from their previously almost-demure position to stare John in the face.

"Makes what simpler?" John asked, feeling rather like one of Sherlock's specimens beneath a microscope. Sherlock rose from his heels to lean into John's personal space, hands still clasped between them.

"Obvious," Sherlock murmured, then pressed their lips together.

It was chaste, soft, not at all what John had imagined it would be –not that he'd spent time fantasizing about kissing his flatmate. Except that he completely had. And this was somehow… better. Superior in every way to the imagined fits of anger or jealousy that had always sparked the pretended kisses.

Sherlock pulled back, a surprisingly serene smile on his face. His eyes were half-closed, and seemed tranquil, not half-mad or frantic as they usually did between cases. "Acceptable?" he asked quietly, seeming at once in control and incredibly vulnerable.

"I think we can do a sight better than acceptable," John half-growled, freeing one of his hands to draw Sherlock in closer and slant their mouths together again.

Where the first kiss had been soft as rain dripping onto a pond, the second was a deluge in the desert. John drank Sherlock in, swallowing the small sounds he made when John parted his lips with his own tongue, insinuating himself inside the cupid's bow he'd admired for so long, meeting Sherlock wetly with lazy rolls and lapping gently at the roof of his mouth. He wanted to taste every part of Sherlock, certain that this would be his only chance, his one opportunity to claim some small portion of this incredible man.

The madman moved closer, clambering into the doctor's lap, folding his long legs around John's waist and pressing closer. John rocked his hips up, brushing their cocks together in a slow drag. The soldier couldn't remember the last time he'd been this painfully turned on and not certain where things were going to lead. With Sherlock, though, John knew he would take anything and everything the detective would freely give.

Their bodies continued the slow grind, their tongues dueling for dominance, each trying to touch as much of the other as possible. Sherlock's shirt was soon lost in the mad scramble for skin, and John's jumper and button down soon joined it in a rumpled heap on the floor. Immediately Sherlock pressed against John, skin to skin, trailing light fingertips and scratching nails gently down light tan of his skin from where he'd worked in the garden shirtless over the summer.

Not that Sherlock had in any way been ogling him as he worked.

Not even a little.

John's mouth brought Sherlock back to the moment, whispering sweet nothings across his skin, trailing fire down his neck and over his protruding collarbone until his lips brushed over Sherlock's nipple. Sherlock arched his back with a sharp gasp, and he could _feel_ John grin against his bare skin and that thought shot through him like he'd stuck a fork in a light socket –and yes he did in fact know what that was like, and no, it had not been Mycroft's idea, despite what Mummy to this day thought– lighting every nerve in him ablaze.

A damp heat enveloped one nipple, and Sherlock glanced down to see John mouthing gently at it. A moment later, he felt a brief flash of teeth and the smooth laving of tongue, making him writhe and forcing strange, aborted sounds from his throat. When John moved his mouth to work the other nipple, Sherlock pulled back with a damp gasp.

"If we keep this up," Sherlock said, his voice noticeably deeper, "We should at the very least move to the bed."

For the briefest second he was terrified John wouldn't answer, or worse, would come to his heteronormative senses and spring away from Sherlock with stammering excuses of "not gay", but after a splitsecond pause, John answered, voice gravelly and absolutely wrecked.

"Oh God yes."


	2. Chapter 2

It took Sherlock a moment to realize that yes, John had just said yes to him, and all that that entailed. In his moment of hesitation, John seamlessly took the reins, standing up but holding Sherlock's legs fast about his own waist without breaking the kiss. Instinctually, Sherlock tightened his legs, bringing their groins back into delicious friction as John walked them both down the hall to Sherlock's bedroom.

John fumbled with the doorknob a moment, getting distracted by Sherlock's tongue and the positively _sinful_ things it kept doing, but soon enough they were inside Sherlock's room. He slowly lowered Sherlock to the ground with his back to the door, keeping their mouths sealed together. Sherlock pressed against him, reluctant to lose any of the heat John was kindling in him.

Sherlock gave John's lower lip a sharp nip, trying to goad him into action. It worked; John let loose a moan that was sure to annoy the neighbors and scratched his short fingernails down Sherlock's bare chest, making Sherlock arch against him. John's hands slid southward, toying with Sherlock's waistband.

"Trousers, off," Sherlock mumbled against John's mouth, pressing him back away from the door and towards the bed. John let him, giving control of his body over to Sherlock, who was heady with the trust and devotion John was showing him in each heated kiss.

John gave a fevered nod, tugging his belt off with hands made clumsy by desire. The detective grinned and gave John a push, knocking the doctor onto his back on top of the bed sheets. For a brief second Sherlock hovered over him, drinking in the doctor's prone form and lust-blown eyes, before the doctor reached forward and grasped Sherlock by the waistband and tugged him down beside him.

A brief shuffle ensued, where John scooted over and rolled onto his side while Sherlock rolled so he and John were face to face. John reached out with a gentle hand, trailing soft fingers over Sherlock's cheekbones. When his fingers reached Sherlock's lips, his index finger reverently stroked their outline. Sherlock quivered under such scrutiny, and when he couldn't stand it any longer he surged forward, pressing his mouth to John's once more.

Sherlock had had enough of the slow and steady seduction, now all he wanted was heat and friction and he wanted it _now_. He all but ripped off his trousers, causing John to huff a laugh out against Sherlock's neck before he pressed another kiss to the detective's pulse.

"It's not a race, love. We've got all night," John murmured, and Sherlock was never going to admit how those words turned him to so much goo. He was, however, going to do his damnedest to get John out of his trousers.

For all his professed patience, John certainly didn't prove uneager to remove what cloth remained to separate them. He let Sherlock undo the flies of his trousers, tugging them down his legs and finally pushing them off his feet completely, leaving them both in their pants. John felt a flash of self-consciousness; his pants were ridiculous red briefs, something that looked like they belonged on a prepubescent boy, not a man of his age. Sherlock, on the other hand, looked like some sort of male model, all long leanness wrapped in purple silk boxers.

But Sherlock stared at John as if _he_ was the lucky one. Those changeable eyes were nearly swallowed up by the unfathomable depths of his pupils, and his chest was heaving from the sharp breaths that raced into his lungs. The lights in the room were off, but just enough streetlight filtered in to loan them both a soft, golden glow.

Something in John's throat caught at the abrupt tenderness of the scene, the two of them lying together, just looking each other over and drinking in all there was to see. A sudden pressure against John's side startled him, but he immediately relaxed when he saw it was only Sherlock's hand drawing them closer together.

Sherlock leaned down, pressing his mouth to the red scar tissue John still sported on his left shoulder. John groaned, not used to partners reacting so positively to his injury. Usually they would ignore it, or shy away from it but never, _never_ had someone kissed it so reverently, with warm, damp kisses along the sensitive skin and heavier, more intense presses of lips to the heart of the marring, where the skin took more to be stimulated.

Almost without his noticing it, John's hands had moved on their own to slide beneath Sherlock's boxers, cupping his arse and pulling Sherlock tighter to him so that he could feel the other man's arousal pressing against his stomach. Sherlock let out a moan, and the rich baritone sound shot straight to John's cock. It was official; if he had to wait any longer he was going to explode. John leaned up and caught Sherlock's mouth in a bruising kiss, his tongue demanding entrance to Sherlock's mouth and gaining it freely. He swept inside, taking no prisoners as he sought, tasted, and explored every inch of Sherlock he could get to.

"There- There's lubricant in the nightstand- oh, _John_!" Sherlock exclaimed as John kissed down his chest and reached his boxers, nudging the waistband down and exposing Sherlock's cock, the head red and exposed, shiny with precome already. John gave a wicked grin, his tongue flicking out to lick at the slit before he away, much to Sherlock's disappoint, to rummage in the nightstand drawer.

A moment's searching later, John returned with a bottle of lubricant and a tinfoil packet. "Condoms?" John asked, surprised to have found lube, much less protection along with it.

"Not with us," Sherlock said firmly. When John started to protest, Sherlock argued. "I know that I am clean, and I'm equally certain you are. And before you ask, you're a doctor, I doubt you would allow yourself to contract anything unsavory."

The words shouldn't have been sexy, really there was nothing erotic about a man talking about STIs, but coming from Sherlock… it was sinful. Then again, perhaps it was just the idea of no barriers existing between them, not even the small amount of insulation provided by a condom, that had John's breath coming even faster than it had a moment earlier. But there was still one more thing he had to ask.

"Have you… done this sort of thing? Before, I mean," John said. On the one hand, he hated that he had to ask, that he didn't know Sherlock well enough to know, but on the other, he was thrilled to even be in a situation where it was okay to want more of Sherlock, to ask for what couldn't reasonably be given.

"I'm not a virgin," Sherlock said simply, reclining back on the mattress and drawing John's gaze along with him. John set the lube and condom carefully one the pillow to the side of Sherlock's face before leaning over his mad detective and pressing a shockingly chaste kiss to his lips.

"We still don't have to. We can take this… whatever _this_ is, slow," John whispered. He really, really, _really_ did not want to wait, but if Sherlock wanted it, John would do anything. Just so he could be with Sherlock like this, so exposed but so content.

Sherlock made a low keening sound in his throat, and when John looked into his eyes he saw a deep hunger in them, something wild and fierce. "John Hamish Watson, if you do not fuck me into the mattress very soon, I think I may die," Sherlock hissed, bucking up to kiss John hard and fast and dirty, sweeping his tongue through John's mouth and pulling back before John could reciprocate.

John nodded, struck suddenly mute by the sight of Sherlock in front of him, wanting and most of all, wanting _him_. He fumbled for the lube, finally squirting some into his hand and warming it up before slicking his fingers. With his dry hand, he slid off Sherlock's boxers, scooting down the bed to remove them completely. Maybe it would've made more sense to do that first, but John wasn't precisely thinking straight.

Once the boxers were gone, John was faced with Sherlock's erection in all its unabashed glory. It wasn't any larger than usual, a little slender and perhaps a bit long, just like the man himself, and the hair at the base was a mass of dark curls. John leaned down, nosing along the shaft until he could breathe deeply, taking in Sherlock's scent in its purest form, an indescribable musk that was somehow concentrated Sherlock.

He gave the shaft an experimental lick, and Sherlock groaned above him. "So help me, John, I _need_ you inside me, now!" Sherlock ordered, his voice quaking. John smiled again, his lubed fingers stroking down Sherlock's cock to fondle his testicles before sliding even further back to his puckered entrance.

When his fingers got there, John found that the first one slid in easily, meeting next to no resistance. He glanced up questioningly, and found that Sherlock looked almost sheepish. "You did take an awfully long shower this afternoon," was all John said, before leaning forward and placing a damp kiss to the head of Sherlock's prick.

He kept that up, moving his one finger in and out in a steady rhythm while he suckled the head, never moving to take more of Sherlock's dick in, but not letting up his oral assault one iota. Sherlock was falling apart above him, moaning and gasping as John slid in a second finger and crooked them just _so_, finding the exact swollen bundle of nerves that made Sherlock buck wildly in unrestrained need.

Three fingers in, and Sherlock was a mess, quivering and _whimpering_, the most delicious sounds pouring from his mouth. When the detective couldn't take it any longer, he cursed.

"God fucking dammit, John. _Please_, get inside me, _please_," Sherlock begged. That pushed the very last strands of John's restraint, and he carefully slid his fingers away from Sherlock's hole, and pulled away from his cock with an obscenely wet 'pop'. Immediately, Sherlock pulled him up to crush their mouths together, tasting himself on John's tongue, and wanting to taste John the same way.

Perhaps another night, because right now, _right fucking now_ he need John inside him like he'd never needed anything before. Not drugs, not a case, nothing compared to the all-consuming _need_ that was filling Sherlock's body at that moment.

"_Please_," he gasped out one last time, and John moaned, letting Sherlock remove those incredible red pants before taking Sherlock's legs and lifting them over his own shoulders. Part of Sherlock worried about John's injury, but if John thought he could take it, it must be all right.

Then, all worries were driven from Sherlock's mind, because John was lining his cock up with Sherlock's entrance, and then he was pushing in and-_oh!_. God, he was so _full_, full of _John_, and it was like nothing, nothing he'd ever experienced before. All of the others, male and female, had been boring and dull and oh, nothing like this at all. This was everything he'd hoped for and longed for and more. This was perfect.

John was inside the scorching hot heat of Sherlock's body, gasping at how tight and perfect it felt to be with Sherlock like this. It was more than just chemical reactions, this felt _right_. This was what each of his relationships had been lacking in, this feeling of belonging with the other person.

"John," Sherlock moaned, "_move_." And with that, John snapped into action, moving slowly and shallowly at first, but as he felt Sherlock open up he made the strokes longer and deeper, and then began to snap his hips faster and faster until the headboard was slamming into the wall every other thrust and Sherlock was crying out as John hit his prostate over and over.

"_God, John!_" Sherlock shouted as he came, nearly untouched, streaking white come over both their chests. That pushed John over his own edge, and he thrust quickly in and out two more times before he was coming deep inside Sherlock, filling him up and marking him as his own.

When they both came down from their orgasms, John pulled out, and Sherlock winced slightly at the sudden, hollow feeling. His annoyance increased a moment later, when John whispered something about getting cleaned up and slid from the bed. However, a few moments later, John returned with two wet flannels, and proceeded to gently wipe the semen off of Sherlock's chest and his own before moving down to softly dab at Sherlock's sensitive hole, cleaning away the come that was dribbling out of it. Sherlock sighed at the feeling of being so cared for, so valued, and when John was done with his cleaning, Sherlock pulled him down for a languorous kiss.

It had none of the desperate need of earlier, but was rather born of a mutual desire to confirm that this was more than just a one-night stand, born of hormones and a lack of control. This was something real, tangible. Something permanent.

Sherlock felt a small twinge of fear. He didn't know how to do relationships; friendships alone were beyond his range of expertise. John somehow caught his discomfort and snuggled into Sherlock's chest, pulling the duvet up to cover them both.

"Don't worry, love, we'll figure it out together," John assured, pressing a soft kiss to Sherlock's chest. The detective nodded, set at ease by John's words. He curled possessively around his soldier, wrapping an arm around him.

They fell asleep that way, wrapped around each other, and when Greg burst in the next morning, demanding to know why Sherlock hadn't answered the four separate calls for a crime scene, he came across them still sound asleep. They hadn't shifted apart the whole night.


End file.
